


Man to Man

by sock_bealady



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Rape Aftermath, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: In the aftermath of Jack Randall's brutality, Jamie and Fergus come to an understanding.  A gapfiller that picks up in the brothel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure there's a right way to write a story like this, but I always felt a little cheated that we didn't get more interaction between Jamie and Fergus in either the show or _Dragonfly in Amber._ This was my attempt to deal with their trauma while remaining respectful of it. It is book-verse, although I'll always draw inspiration from the characterizations and mannerisms on the show. This is non-graphic, but heed the tags and warnings and read at your own risk. There is no "on-screen" abuse, and only very brief flashbacks. There is also no Jamie/Fergus of any kind.

I knew this closet well. It was deep, for a linen storage place, with four sturdy shelves packed with sheets and blankets. When I was small, it was my secret place--my imaginary castle. I used to climb to the top-most shelf and hide among the extra pillows, surveying my "kingdom" and startling the girls when they came for clean sheets.

I didn't fit so well anymore, but they were behind on the laundry, so by stacking a few quilts I was able to carve out space for a little den. I knelt there, shoulder pressed against the wall, head jammed against the shelf above. It would have been better to sit, but I could not bring myself to--it hurt too much.

The great commotion and banging from before had settled down, for the most part. I supposed that meant the Englishman was gone. I couldn't understand most of what he and milord had shouted at each other--they said it in their own tongue and anger made their voices like blaring trumpets. Milord was still raging a bit, his words intercut with Madame Elise's softer ones as she tried to calm him. I heard him storm through the Englishman's room. There was the _thud_ of furniture, the _tinkle_ of shattering glass, and Madame's voice rose a bit in reproof. After another brief argument, I heard the creak of a mattress, as if someone very heavy had sat down on it suddenly.

All was quiet for a little while. I tugged one of the blankets free and wrapped it around my shoulders, trying to make no noise. Milord James Fraser would leave soon. I should stop calling him 'milord' in my head. James Fraser. It was foolish to think I could stay with him, whatever he might have said. Only a foreigner would have mistaken me for a simple pickpocket in the first place. I ought to have known the day would come when he would find out the truth about me.

And Madame Elise, I wondered? Would she let me come back, now that her client had ruined me for respectable work? She didn't have much of a client base for boys, and picking pockets wouldn't come close to paying my board. It might be she would feel sorry for me and keep me a while, or it might be she would pack me off to Madame Gillette's like she used to threaten. They specialized in little ones at Gillette's, but I wouldn't be small enough or pretty enough for long. I'd have to find some other way.

The bed creaked again, and I heard Lord Fraser's heavy steps on the floor boards. He ventured out into the hallway. Time for him to go, then.

"Fergus?" His voice was meant to carry, but it wasn't angry anymore. Volume aside, his tone was soft, like it always was when he talked to the beasts in the stables. I shrank back a little further into my space, even enduring pressure on my buttocks to make myself smaller. I heard Lord Fraser walking up and down the hall. "Fergus, ye can come out now, lad. He's gone. He won't be showing his face again if I have anything to say about it."

He thought I was just hiding from the Englishman, still. I buried a sniffle in the corner of the blanket. Why wouldn't he just go? I didn't have it in me to say goodbye to him, and I didn't want to spend another moment thinking about things I could no longer have. At last, I heard the creak of the stairs as he went down to the parlor. I started to breathe again, but only a few moments later he was coming back up, accompanied this time by the lighter steps of a girl. 

I pulled the wool tight around me, but could do nothing to stop the door from swinging open. My lord leaned down, then squatted at my level. Over his shoulder, I could see Adelphe, a girl who'd been working here since before I could walk and who knew my haunts well.

"Fergus, lad," he stopped and apparently couldn't go on. We both stared at the floorboards between us. Lord Fraser had my clothes over his arm--the smart jacket and trousers that milady had had made for me so I would look respectable. He must have found them in the room where the Englishman had left them, folded so neatly over the clothes horse. He held them out to me. "Didn't want to be seen out starkers. I can understand that." When I made no move to take them, he reached out with his other arm and gently scooped me from my hiding place. "Come along, then. You'll feel more the man once you're dressed."

Aided by Adelphe, he ushered me into an empty room--not the Englishman's, fortunately. The girl stayed outside and mi . . . Lord Fraser closed the door with a definitive _click._ "You're safe now, Fergus," he said in a very kind tone, "Get dressed if ye can. If you don't want me to watch, I can wait outside." He held the clothes out again, and I couldn't keep silent any longer.

"I can't, milord, those are your clothes! You paid out of your own pocket, or milady did."

His brow furrowed. "Aye. And? That didn't trouble you when ye put them on this morning."

I ducked my head and fought back a sniffle. Milord had always done right by me. I had to return the favor. "And, you ought to keep them in case they're needed. In case you hire another boy to take my place."

"No one's taking yer . . . what's this nonsense, Fergus? Do ye mean to . . ." He stopped suddenly and his shoulders slumped. He answered his own question. "No, but you thought _I_ meant. You hid because you expected I'd just leave you here." He knelt in front of me and but his large hands on my shoulders. "Get dressed, lad, because we're going _home._ I'd sooner hobble a foal and leave it for the wild dogs than let you spend one more hour in a place like this."

I stared at him. "But . . . I thought . . . you were so angry."

"Aye, mad as a devil at _him_!" He shook my shoulders just a little in vehemence. "And at that bitch Elise for not putting a stop to it and my own fool self for not thinking what might happen! But not at you. It _wasn't_ your fault." He glared fiercely at me. "Say it."

"It wasn't my fault," I repeated woodenly.

His face softened. "Good lad." This time when he held out the clothes, I took them and shed the blanket. It wasn't so bad, so long as I faced him. He couldn't see much besides maybe the early red smudges of bruises. All the same, I wiggled into the trousers as quickly as I could. A little _too_ quickly, maybe; when the fabric closed over my ass, I couldn't help a small gasp at the pain. Milord closed his eyes, the furrow between his brows more apparent than ever. "I know," he said softly, "It'll be better soon."

I flinched as if he'd slapped me. He didn't mean it, of course--he couldn't know--but the Englishman had used almost exactly the same words not long ago. Early on, when he first took me and I couldn't quite hold back a whimper, the man had simpered into my ear in a tone of false concern. _"I know, boy, I know it hurts."_ While one of his hands bruised my hip, the other had combed through my hair gently. _"It will be better soon. You'll see . . ."_

I was shaking so badly that I could barely find the holes to force my arms through the shirt and jacket. Lord Fraser took over, fastening the buttons and ties himself. "I'm sorry," he said quietly as he wrapped the stock around my neck. His big hands trembled suddenly and his voice broke a little. "I'm sorry for all of it, lad."

I wanted to tell him not to be--wanted to admit how wrong he was about it not being my fault, but I couldn't bring myself to speak. Instead, I just clasped his hand, where it still rested over my collar bone. He squeezed briefly, then rose and draped an arm around my shoulders. "Let's get out of here."

The streets outside the brothel were probably no more crowded or boisterous than on any day around noontime, but they seemed oddly jarring. I pressed against milord's side as we walked, trying to match his long gait. He was taking me back. Freed from the immediate fear of having to find a new place for myself, my mind began to wander. That was a mistake, of course; it wasn't long before I was reliving that painful fifteen minutes between when the door clicked shut behind the Englishman and when I broke and began calling out. I tremored, then shuddered, then missed a step and fell, landing hard on one knee. Milord didn't scold me--he just scooped me up with one arm around my shoulders and the other under my knees and then continued on with me cradled against his chest.

I turned my face into his shirt, grateful enough that I didn't even care that the whole street could see me being carried like a babe. I didn't realize I'd made a sound until I heard milord go "shhh." I didn't know why I was letting it affect me so--me, a man nearly grown. It wasn't as though I'd never been taken before. I'd had plenty of men, some even the sort to be rough with a boy, just . . . just not like this. Never like this.

I didn't realize we'd made it home until I felt milord lower me to my feet. I looked up, wiping my nose on a sleeve, to find that we'd come not to the front door but to the servant's entrance around back. Milord rapped on the door sharply. A confused kitchen maid stuck her head out, then threw the door open when she saw who it was. "Milord! Is Magnus not minding the front door? Madame Vionnet will have his head!"

Milord smiled. "No, it's alright, Delphine. Certainly nothing to worry Madame Vionnet about. It's only that wee Fergus isn't feeling well, and I thought I'd best get him to bed with a minimum of fuss."

The maid's eyes went wide at the lord's concern. "Oh? Poor dear!" She went to embrace me, but milord skillfully intercepted her.

"I'll just take the lad upstairs. If ye could have a hot bath sent up along with some wine and milk."

"Of course, milord." She paused. "Milady is resting. Else she would probably want to see the boy. She is most persistent about any sickness."

"Aye, that she is. No need to tell my lady wife we're home. Let her sleep."

"And will you be joining her for dinner in an hour?"

He hesitated. "No, I expect not today. Just have a bite of soup sent up in a bit for myself and my compatriot here." He nudged me forward. I got the message and proceeded him through the kitchen to the narrow back stair. It was good that I had his bulk behind me. I was still trembling a little, and I could easily have missed a step and gone crashing down.

We managed to avoid the other servants as we climbed all the way to the top floor and my garret bedroom. On the matter of the bath, I was hardly in a position to argue. It was enough for milord to take me back without him having to smell the Englishman's stink all over me. Still, I couldn't quite suppress a shudder when the maid and footman climbed the steps after us, bearing a copper tub and buckets of steaming water. Milord caught the gesture and squeezed my shoulder as the tub was filled. "It will help with the trembling," he whispered, "And the sting as well."

Once the servants were gone, milord hesitated, apparently unsure. "Do ye want me to go, lad? If you don't want to be seen, I do understand . . ."

"No, it's alright, milord," I interrupted, my terror of being left alone momentarily overriding my manners. My face flamed and I ducked my head. "I'm sorry."

He turned me to face him. "You," he said deliberately, "Have _nothing_ to be sorry for."

"I shouldn't have called out for you."

"Yes, you damn well should have."

"Everyone knows about their tempers. The Englishman might have killed you for interrupting him."

"The bastard would've been more than welcome to try," he growled. He gestured, and I started to undress, glad that at least I could manage the buttons now, even if my hands weren't altogether steady. He took my clothes and laid them over the bed, then steadied me as I stepped into the tub. I tried to keep myself mostly turned toward him, but from the hiss of his breath, I could tell he'd caught sight of my ass at last. I sank into the water with a shudder. He was right. As the heat seeped into my bones, the trembling slowly stopped. The pain from the dozen stripes on my ass flared sharply at the first touch of wet, then slowly melted away. 

I got under the cover of the water just in time, as it turned out. Delphine returned, bearing two pitchers, a crystal goblet, and a wooden cup. Milord thanked her and dismissed her, then filled both vessels.

"I would like some wine, milord," I called out suddenly, "If it's not too much to ask."

He turned back to me and smiled a little. "Of course you would, lad. The milk was for me." He offered me the goblet and tapped it with the cup in a wordless toast. My face went red as we drank, but the wine was very good. We were quiet for a little while. It was milord who broke the silence.

"Those marks. What did he use on you?"

I tucked my elbows close around me and stared at my knees. "It was his belt."

Milord was quiet for a moment. I didn't dare look at him. "His belt," he repeated, his voice quiet but rich with loathing, "As though he was playing at being your father."

I cupped water in my hands and splashed it over my head and through my hair. "If this is what fathers do, I'm glad I never had one."

"No, that's not what I meant, lad, it's just . . . " He scrubbed his face with his scarred right hand. "The Englishman has a name. Jack Randall. We've crossed paths before and I've long had the measure of him. He has a way of . . . knowing what will cut a person. Knowing just how to do it. I shoulda dealt with him a long time ago, but . . . well, no matter. The important thing is, he'll not do anything like this again."

"How do you know, milord?"

He met my eyes and smiled a little. "There's to be a secret duel tomorrow. And I mean to kill him."

I sat bolt upright. "But, milord, it is forbidden!"

"Aye, that's why we do it secretly."

"But, what if he kills you?"

"He won't."

"Then, what if you're caught? His majesty could have you hanged!"

"I know it, and I won't be caught." His face tightened. "You're not going to change my mind, Fergus."

I couldn't let him do this--not over me. I puffed myself up and glared at him. "I'll tell Madame!"

"You'll do no such thing," he snapped, "Unless you want me to tan your hide!"

I gasped despite myself and sank a little deeper in the water. His face froze, and a moment later he drooped with contrition. "I shouldna have said that." I stared at my hands, studiously scrubbing over the backs of my legs. "I wouldn't, lad, you know that." 

"I know," I said quickly, "I know that I am safe with you."

"Aye? Then, why'd you hide when I called your name?"

To distract myself from answering, I shifted my weight and began the painful work of cleaning the filthiest part of me. There wasn't much to do. The Englishman-- _Jack Randall_ \--hadn't had time to finish, so all that was left was a few smears of grease. "I did not think you would take me back, knowing that I lied to you."

"Maybe you've overestimated the _knowing_ part," milord said evenly, "Lied about what?"

"About me being . . . just a pickpocket and nothing more. You never asked, but I let you think I wasn't like the others."

"And what do ye mean by 'like the others'?"

I splashed water over my head. "A whore." Thinking I might as well do the thing properly, I took the bar of soap and began to lather my hair.

"Ah." He was watching me with that strangely intent gaze of his. "I wondered, coming up the way you did, but I knew it for none of my business. Why would you think otherwise?"

I looked away, wiping the suds, trying to keep them out of my eyes. "I hear the way you talk," I admitted, "With Madame and with your Scottish friends. About whores and whoremongers and those who have affairs."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph . . ." I gasped a little and squeezed my eyes shut as my efforts failed. The next thing I felt was milord's calloused hands gently tipping my chin back. The water swirled as he cupped a handful, then he let it fall over my brow, sluicing away the suds. He repeated the motion a few more times, until all I could feel on my face was water. When I could open my eyes again, I found him staring down at me, his expression stricken and grave. "It's true I believe in matrimony," he said solemnly, "And that there's a good deal that's normal in France that I can never bring myself to accept. But, I'd never dream of taking it out on you, lad. You did what you had to do to survive, and I'd never fault ye for it. Nor would any God of mine."

I nodded and he sat back as if relieved. I swallowed the last of my wine, and then seized on what might be the last opportunity I would get. "That's why you cannot fight the Englishman."

"Fergus . . ."

"No, you don't understand, he did it because he was going to pay me! I told him he could!"

"That's strange. Madame Elise said you did everything in your power to say no."

I worked the last of the soap from my hair. "I said yes in the end."

"Yes, I imagine ye did. Doesn't make what he did alright." Milord picked up a towel and took my hand, holding me steady until I could climb out of the tub. He went to wrap the towel around me, but stopped suddenly, his eyes on my ass. I realized belatedly that this was the side he'd not seen yet. I half expected an angry outburst, but all he said was "Dry yourself off, lad, but don't dress yet. My lady wife has a good remedy for burns. I'll bring some up for ye."

He left before I had a chance to respond. I did as he said, being careful of the sore places, and only my hair still dripped when he came back bearing several thick green leaves. He took a leaf, rolled it firmly back and forth between his fingers, and then cut it lengthwise with a knife. Squatting by my side, he lifted the curtain of the towel wrapped around me just enough to expose one buttock. He rubbed the cut green flesh gently over the brand where it hurt the most, and the sharp sting started to ease. "My wife grows these beauties on the windowsill in our bedchamber. Fresh leaves are best, and as often as possible until it heals."

I nodded, bracing myself with both hands on the bed frame. I don't know why I talked, but I couldn't stop myself. "He was angry that I moved. It smeared the mark, he said. He was going to do it again, but I wept and begged him. That's when he got his belt. He said he wouldn't brand me again if I would . . . c . . . count." I covered my face with the towel, but I couldn't bite the words back. "Afterwards, he seemed pleased. He petted me and kissed my head and said he was very proud of me for being so brave. And I knew he liked it because he . . . he . . . And that's when I couldn't anymore, and I started calling for you and . . ." I stopped because Lord Fraser had suddenly pulled back. I turned to look at him and found that his face was very white. "Milord?"

His lips were pressed tight together, but he managed to part them and ask "Where's your chamberpot?" in a low, terse tone.

"It's . . . it's under the bed, but . . ."

He didn't wait for me to finish before pushing past me, pulling the pot from its place, and lowering his head to it. I tightened the towel around myself as he vomited. Taking up the crystal goblet, I filled it again with wine from the pitcher. When the heaving slowed and stopped, I knelt at his side and offered it to him. He took it and drank deep. "I'm sorry," I offered, "I shouldn't have spoken so. I disgust you and . . ."

He held up a hand to stop me. "You don't."

"But I was weak. I was grateful when he didn't use the brand again. I let him do those things to me and . . ."

"Fergus, I want to show you something." His voice was suddenly firm and steady. He reached up and began to unbutton his waistcoat. I flinched back, more startled than anything, and he reached out and clasped my wrist. "Nothing like that. Never. I swear it on my life and on my honor." I nodded and got control over myself. He removed the coat, then the oversized shirt, very slowly. Sitting back on his heels, he looked down and cast an appraising look over his own chest. 

"Mine was right here." He touched a small, white scar just beneath his nipple. "I held still for it and it came out very clear. You could see the letters. JR for Jonathan Randall. I cut it out with a knife after, because I couldn't bear to go on reading those initials." There were a few pockmarks over his chest and shoulders. He ran a finger from one to another. "Nothing fancy about these. Just a hot poker. That's how I know about those wonderful leaves. Took weeks for them to stop stinging." His fingertip caught in a depression under his collarbone. "Except for this one. Hurt like an adder's bite when it happened, and then nothing at all from it. My wife said he burned away something called nerve endings." His thumb traced along a very thin, white line that ran horizontally across his chest. "This was just a sharp knife. Would've barely hurt at all except that he did it very slowly."

He stood and turned and I barely stifled a gasp, seeing scars like fishermen's nets all across his back. "This is what he does when he can't get consent for the rest. I think old Jack likes his whip nearly as much as he likes his prick." He turned back and sat down heavily on the edge of my bed. "For the rest, besides my broken fingers, nearly every mark on me is one I told Randall he could put there. He paid me for them--not with money, but with something a good deal more dear. And I told him he could do it."

I sat down beside him, the towel wrapped around my waist. I stared at it while milord stared at his kilt. "And . . ." I realized what I'd been about to ask and closed my mouth with a click. He saw through me anyway.

"And, I let him do whatever he wanted to me." His voice was even and strong. "He wanted everything, and that's what I gave him. That's how I know that he likes the pain--likes to be doing the hurting, but likes comforting as well. And that's how I know that he likes it best when it's with someone like us--someone who doesn't want even a bit of it, but has to bear it anyway."

He looked at me and lifted my chin until I met his gaze. "That's why I have to kill Jack Randall tomorrow. Not for revenge for me or for you or anything of the sort, but because of what he is. It can't be helped--might be not even _he_ can help it--but he'll do it again, and probably to someone else. And that can't be allowed to happen."

I nodded once and he released me. We sat in silence for a little while. "You cut yours out," I said at last, "Would you . . . would you cut mine out for me? I'm not sure I could handle the knife."

"And cause you more pain just now? Do you really think I could do that?"

"I don't want to bear _his_ mark. Even if you can't read the letters, I know what they are."

"I know." He sighed. "Give yourself time, lad. Your feelings might change twenty times a day for the first little bit. That part passes. When you're healed up, come and talk to me, and if you still want it gone, I'll see it's done."

"And you'll be here?" I asked with a hint of challenge.

He seized my head between his hands and pressed a kiss into my hair. "Aye," he said, his voice thick, "I'll be here."

I believed him.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback of all kinds is much appreciated.


End file.
